Chapter 12 The Field Narrows
"There!" Helena added a final flourish to the address she was writing and set the finished card aside. "Done! At last!"
"And not a moment too soon," Penny observed. She had shared in the task of addressing the invitations to Helena's coming-out ball and sat rubbing the cramp from her fingers. "These need to be posted today."
"And so they will be, thanks to your help." Helena smiled gratefully at her sister, then fretted, "Oh, I do so hope people will come! There are bound to be two or even three other balls on offer that evening."
"I shouldn't worry," Penny soothed. "Indeed, you should rather hope a goodly number send their regrets. The ballroom may be spacious, but it can hardly accommodate two hundred guests. Not in any comfort, at least."
The sound of footfalls and a rustle of skirts was all the notice the sisters had of an impending arrival. Georgina Harcourt, hands already busy unknotting the ribbons of her bonnet, bustled into the room, calling, "Good morning, Helena! Penny! I am come, as promised, to lend a hand with the invitations, although, as you have reason to know, Helena, my penmanship's not nearly so fine as yours." As she advanced, her gaze falling on the neat stacks of cards and her cousins sitting idle, her bright manner faded. "Oh, never say you have already finished!"
"Only just this very minute," Helena assured her. She rose from the table, and, crossing to Georgie's side, motioned her to a seat. "But, come, sit down. I was just about to ring for tea. You'll have some?"
"I should like that, thanks." She sank onto a chair, and, removing her bonnet, set it on a side table. "What with the florist's men and the caterers coming and going, and the extra staff Mamma hired swarming about, cleaning and polishing, it's all at sixes and sevens in Cavendish Square. I was everywhere underfoot."
Penny moved to the sitting area and settled on a sofa. "So, preparations for tonight are going well?"
"I believe so, but everything's so topsy-turvy, I'm sure I can't tell! And our ball is only a small affair! I can't imagine hosting such a grand event as yours will be, Helena."
"It's a daunting prospect to be sure, but you know our mamma: once she sets herself an object, there is no one more focused and capable. We no sooner returned to Town than she started in making arrangements so that now, with two weeks to go, everything is organized and well in hand."
"And your mamma and grandma know what they're about, too," Penny said supportively. "Why, what with having launched four daughters into society, Aunt Maria's an old hand at coming-out balls."
"You're right, I'm sure. I don't know why I should be nervous. Most of the company will be family, after all, or friends who've known me most of my life. There'll be only a few more recent acquaintances."
Helena knew Lord Percy to be of this privileged number, and knew as well, having heard him confirm it, that he fully intended to attend. She was, as ever, looking forward to seeing him but, for once, her anticipation was tinged with a shade of anxiety. It was her disquieting impression that, of late, Lord Percy, though always cordial, had grown somewhat cooler toward her. There was in his manner a new reserve, and a decided decrease in the easy smiles, admiring looks and small gallanteries to which she'd become accustomed. She was troubled by the suddenness of the change and, in particular, her inability to account for it. If his meeting with her father had gone badly, she might have understood, but her papa had reported being well-pleased both with the negotiation and with Percy, so that could not be the cause. She found some consolation in mistrusting her own perception, or in supposing, if she were not mistaken, that the alteration in him was of a temporary nature, having to do with some preoccupation unrelated to her, such as vexing news from Harebell. It was, then, in the hopeful view of finding her impression misguided and her apprehension foolish that she looked forward to the evening.
Georgina was content to spend what remained of the morning chatting with her cousins, and providing, at Penny's prompting, a detailed description of her ball gown and accessories, the hairstyle she meant her maid to attempt, the identities of the thirty guests invited to dine, and the number and variety of courses to be served. Venetia came in just as Georgie was explaining the drawing room's pink and white color scheme and the huge bouquets of pale roses that would transform the space into something like a garden. It being well past noon, Venetia pressed their visitor to remain for luncheon, and, Damerel being engaged to dine at his club, the four ladies sat down to a companionable meal.
Venetia entered readily into the talk of Georgie's come-out, and, likely in an effort to hearten and distract her, reminisced about the splendid balls Mrs. Hendred had hosted for her younger daughters, Georgie's aunts. Her recollections were vivid and so entertaining, she kept her listeners thoroughly engaged and enthralled. Helena joined in the laughter and appreciative exclamations, but even as she did, she was struck by a false note in her mother's high spirits, as if she were forcing herself to a gaiety she did not truly feel. When, at last, Georgie had taken her leave and Penny had retired to read in her chamber, Helena trailed Venetia into the sitting room, and asked solicitously, "Is something troubling you, Mamma? I fancy you were not quite yourself at lunch."
Venetia flashed her a would-be-innocent smile. "I can't think what you mean, my love. I am perfectly well."
"Come, Mamma! Something has upset you, I can tell. Won't you confide in me? Perhaps I can be of some help."
Venetia opened her mouth to protest again, but then, her eyes meeting Helena's, she evidently thought better of it and sank heavily onto a sofa. "I've had a letter," she said reluctantly. "From your uncle Conway."
Helena crossed hurriedly to her mother and sat down beside her. "What has happened? Is it Francis? Is he ill again?"
"No, no! Francis is well, or, at least, I suppose he must be. Conway doesn't mention him one way or another. No, it's rather… You remember that Conway has taken a house in Berkley Square for himself and his family."
Helena nodded. "For the entire month of June. He wanted to be on hand for the Coronation and all the festivities associated with it."
"Just so. He had the admirable foresight to secure a lodging some six months in advance and now it has come to his attention that, with the masses of people descending on London, accommodations of any sort, let alone in fashionable Mayfair, are scarcer than hens' teeth."
"It was provident he thought to plan so far ahead."
"Yes, and you'd think he'd be satisfied with his enviable position, but, instead, he's looking to exploit it. He's convinced he can find some desperate soul to take over his lease for twice what he paid for it, leaving him to pocket a substantial profit."
"But, if he gives up the house, they'll have nowhere to stay and have to remain in Yorkshire. That's hardly fair to Aunt Charlotte! She's so looking forward to the celebrations."
Venetia's lips twisted in a bitter smile. "Ah, but what you fail to appreciate is that Conway has a devoted sister, and what, after all, could be more natural than that she should take her brother, his dependents and a few personal servants under her substantial roof?"
Helena gasped. "He never said such a thing!"
"Oh, yes, quite plainly. He points out, very justly, that ours is a huge house, more than adequate for our needs, and that they could occupy three — or, at most, four — bedchambers without crowding us in the least or causing the slightest inconvenience."
"The audacity!" Helena could not help but exclaim. "I'm sorry, Mamma! I know he is your brother, but…"
"He can be remarkably selfish," Venetia acknowledged sadly.
A sudden dread taking hold, Helena hastened to ask, "You're never going to give him his way?"
"No, no! There's no question of that. Even were I so inclined, your father would never stand for it. Oh, Lena! I wish I need not show him the letter! He'll be furious with Conway and, bad as relations between them are now, they'll only get worse. Still, I suppose I must…"
Seeing her sweet, gentle mother so downcast wrung Helena's heart. "At least, when you reply, you'll have the excuse that we already have guests arriving in June."
"Yes, and if they were all Damerel relations like Cousin Alfred and his wife, Conway could have no complaint, but, as our other guest is Aubrey, he's sure to tax me with being partial and unfair."
"Well, but that is absurd! Uncle Aubrey doesn't have the means to rent himself a house as Conway does. If not for your hospitality, he could never treat himself to a month in Town. Besides, he is one person, while they are four, and, so, far less of an imposition. Not to mention that Uncle Aubrey is so often holed up in the library or attending some learned society meeting we scarcely know he's here. When he does put in an appearance and bestirs himself to be sociable, he's intelligent and rewarding company." Which is more, she implied but did not say outright, than could be said for Conway and his sons.
"Yes, and it's also Aubrey's habit, as Conway knows full well, to stay some weeks with us during the Season. I shall just have to emphasize that his request has come too late, and that we have previous commitments to honor." Venetia turned a tired smile on Helena, and, giving her arm a grateful pat, rose to her feet. "I had best not delay drafting a reply. Thank you, my love. You were right: it did help to speak of it."
Her mother having left her, Helena felt her own need to relieve her feelings and, repairing to Penny's room, poured their uncle's sorry doings in her sister's ear. Penny was as appalled at Conway's presumption as Helena could wish, and they were further joined in fervent relief that they would not be forced to share Storborough House with the Lanyons. Their Aunt Charlotte, they allowed, was an inoffensive creature, well-meaning but ineffectual while Francis, from having been often ill, was obsessively concerned with the state of his health but was not otherwise obnoxious. Roland, though! They could not have tolerated his casual arrogance and monstrous conceit on a day-to-day basis. It was bad enough that Helena would encounter him at social events — he and his parents would, naturally, attend her coming-out ball — but as the Lanyons did not have extensive contacts in London, it was to be hoped their paths would not often cross.
"Only wait until Roland discovers how greatly you're admired!" Penny said with relish. "That will take him down a peg!" She paused to savor the puncture her cousin's pride would suffer then thought to ask, "Speaking of suitors, are you driving out with Lord Hartshorne again today?"
"Yes," Helena said, affecting a cheerful air for Penny's benefit. Whereas Lord Percy had grown more distant of late, Lord Hartshorne, by contrast, had become more marked in his attentions and so often singled Helena out for particular notice, it was generally assumed he was leaning heavily toward making her an offer. He was still sometimes seen with Beryl Stanhope, but if he invariably asked her to dance, sat by her for some portion of an evening's musical entertainment, or stopped by her opera box to chat during intermission, he was no longer to be glimpsed riding with her of a morning, or tooling her about the park in his phaeton. Miss Stanhope's partisans did not yet concede she was out of the running, but all pointed to her having slipped into second place.
Helena, being human, could not help but be flattered by the attentions of so high-ranking, wealthy and esteemed a man as the marquis. He was a scion of one of the country's most prestigious families, had attended all the best schools, was both cultivated and active, and, in the matter of looks, cut an elegant, if not notably handsome, figure. To have captured the interest of the ton's most eligible bachelor was a brilliant feather in her cap, raising her status considerably in some quarters and exciting envy in others.
She was sensible of all this, and wanted, if only in recognition, to like the marquis but she found warming to him difficult. There was nothing in his manner toward her to complain of. He was always scrupulously polite and solicitous, but she sensed that his courtesy was more a matter of good form than of genuine concern for her. He was never at a loss for words and took pains to draw her out but these inquiries were conducted in such a way as to make her feel less a young lady being courted than an applicant whose qualifications were being assessed. Was she musical? What, if any, instruments did she play? Was she proficient in drawing? Watercolors? How many languages did she speak? Pouvez-vous, par exemple, converser en français? How widely had she travelled? What charitable causes did she support? And so on and on in this vein. If, in the hopes of instigating a conversation, she turned the question back on him, he would give a brief answer and not elaborate. From this, she gathered that the purpose of their meetings was not, as she'd assumed, for them to become better acquainted but for him to ascertain whether she had the background and character proper to a marchioness and future duchess. His own qualities and history were of no import. He evidently expected — as how could he not? — that he had only to offer for her to accept. Any of the Season's other debutantes would jump at the chance in a moment.
Lord Hartshorne being sparing with smiles and nods of approval, Helena could not be altogether certain how well she performed in these interviews, but his continuing to seek her out seemed a sure indication that she had not yet fallen short of the marquis' standards. She had, in light of this, to entertain the very real possibility that, some morning in the not too distant future, her father would inform her that his lordship had asked permission to propose. Truth be told, the thought of that moment filled her with dread, for what could she answer? She did not fear being frank with her father, but could she simply admit she did not love him the man? Might her father not reasonably point out that, so long as she did not positively dislike the marquis, she might grow in time to love him? Many a marriage entered into with no more than mutual respect and good will deepened into abiding affection. And what of Lord Percy? Could she claim her affections were otherwise engaged? She was attracted to him, certainly, but, young and inexperienced as she was, could she trust herself to distinguish between infatuation and true feeling? And given, moreover, that he appeared to be losing interest, was there any point in rebuffing Lord Hartshorne for his sake?
She took refuge in the thought that she could always ask for time. It was not imperative that she contract a marriage this Season; her parents would not begrudge her a second. But, again, the question would be raised: why should she hesitate? What objection could she advance? Did she value herself so high that not even a marquis would do? Beryl Stanhope had refused a viscount and been widely disparaged as prideful and arrogant. How much worse would it be for her if she rejected Harcourt? It would cause a scandal, blemish her reputation, embarrass her parents and family. They would stand by her, she knew, but she recoiled from the prospect of their having to rally around her. From her earliest years, all she had wanted was to be a source of delight and pride to her parents, and, as the eldest child, to be a role model and reassurance for her siblings. If she was guilty of vanity, it was in wanting not to prove less than the blessed and brilliant Lena they believed her to be. Disappointing their faith in her would be unendurable.
If anything could reconcile her to marrying Hartshorne, it was, indeed, the image of her sisters, their chins held high, referring grandly to their sister, the marchioness. What doors might she not open for them, what splendid marriages not arrange if she had all the power and prestige of being Hartshorne's wife? Was it not selfish to think solely of her own happiness when she could do so much to foster theirs?
These were the questions that swirled through Helena's mind as she prepared for the afternoon's outing. If only, she found herself wishing, his lordship might decide she would not suit! It occurred to her suddenly that she could help him to that decision. She might begin that very day by making him wait — he abhorred lack of punctuality — or by being annoyingly talkative, over-loud and frivolous. She had no talent for acting, though, and could not reconcile herself, in any case, to stooping to such a stratagem.
No, ironically enough, her best hope lay in her rival, Miss Stanhope. If the other woman could, through some machination, win the marquis back to her side, how relieved Helena would be! She devoutly wished her every chance of success.